


An Honest Man

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Peacemakers (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you play chess, Marshal?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honest Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Gattagrigia, Dorinda, and Keiko Kirin for the wonderful beta.
> 
> Written for Arduinna

 

 

 

 

"Do you play chess, Marshal?"

The question came in those oh-so-cultured tones that made Jared Stone want to punch him in the face, as they leaned side-by-side together on the bar at Luci's.

Larimer Finch had been in town for only a month, and was settling in rather well. He wasn't nearly as offensively snooty now as he had been even a short time ago, but he still carried that air of superiority around him like a shield that was just going to get him knocked on his ass at some point.

Or maybe not. Stone had seen Finch in more than one fight.

But he no longer shaved every day, and didn't look quite so much like he had stepped out of a brochure for the Pinkertons. He'd even begun to treat others around him with much more respect, now that he knew they weren't all toothless wonders and country bumpkins. That he had a sharp mind, a keen power of observation, and proven himself an asset in a fight--both for his prowess and his trustworthiness--added to Stone learning to like him more and more every day.

"I've been known to play, Mr. Finch," he said, just as nonchalantly.

And it started just as simply as that.

***

"I meant to say earlier, congratulations, Marshal Stone," Finch said with satisfaction as he took Jared's pawn.

"For what?" Stone asked, studying the board. Finch could have taken his rook, but he obviously had seen the trap Jared had laid for him.

It had been weeks since their first game of chess, and this had started to become a habit, whoever having won last keeping the board and bringing it to the other's rooms for the next round. So far, they did it once or twice a week, other duties (escorting prisoners and dealing with telegraph vandals) and obsessions (the latest issue of a particularly fascinating scientific journal or a new invention) allowing.

"You saved an innocent man from hanging, of course," Finch said, smiling at him in a way Jared had come to recognize as his cue that Finch had laid a trap of his own. But where?

"Well, that's the job, isn't it?" he grumped back. Jared wondered when he'd gotten so old. He was starting to sound like his own father, growling his way through life.

"Actually, it wasn't," Finch said quietly, and Jared looked up from studying the board at him to find a much softer smile than he expected. "Your job was to do what the court decided, and bring him back to be hanged. What you did was the much more complicated and difficult option: the right thing."

Stone looked back down at the board and made his move. Some day Finch would learn there were things men didn't talk about. "Yes, well, I've been known to do that once or twice."

***

Stone was tired. He didn't think he'd ever been more tired in his life. Nothing he did ever seemed to change anything for the better. People just got meaner and more hateful. And he just got more and more tired.

And more and more alone. Cole Hawkins had been a good man and a good friend. Maybe not always a righteous one, but a good man, who had just wanted to find some peace and be left alone. But the world wasn't interested in leaving people in peace.

As for instance. Stone ignored the knock on his door and just kept drinking. If he'd wanted to talk to anyone, he would have stayed at Luci's. He wanted to be left alone with his rotgut, his memories of his friend, and his own long list of failures.

Unfortunately, whoever was at the door had other ideas.

"We're closed," he yelled at the door, and smirked at his own humor. Justice should have to keep bankers' hours.

There was another knock. "Marshal?"

Finch. Probably the last person he wanted to talk to.

"I'm not in the mood, Finch," he said loudly, pouring himself another shot.

"Jared. Please." Damn. Stone knew that he could not out-stubborn Larimer Finch, Pinkerton Detective. The man could stare at a microscope for hours, seemingly fascinated by whatever he was seeing. No way he was going to move off Stone's front porch until he got whatever it was he came for.

Stone walked, mostly steadily, to his front door and opened it. But did not move out of the way. "What do you need, Finch?" he asked, trying for abrupt, but mostly sounding tired.

Finch stood looking at him for several moments without saying anything. Like he was studying him under his damned microscope. "I thought you might want to continue our game," he finally said, with a good attempt at being casual.

It took Stone a moment to track the thought. There was just enough whiskey in his system already to make him slower than usual, but he remembered a chess match from several days ago, abandoned as life got in the way. "Not tonight," he said, and still did not move from the doorway.

Finch stared at him some more, and if Stone had been a little more sober, he might have lost patience with it. But he was drunk enough to think standing in the doorway staring at each other was fine, though he should have brought his bottle.

"Well, then, how about a drink," Finch suggested more quietly, less cheerful.

"I'd rather be alone tonight, Mr. Finch," he said sternly.

Finch's face softened slightly. "Jared, I--" Finch started quietly.

"Mr. Finch," Stone interrupted sharply. For a moment, Finch was silent and Stone just looked at him. He knew Finch meant well, and maybe he shouldn't be alone. But Finch hadn't known Cole, had barely had a chance to talk with him, and Stone would rather be alone with his own memories than try to explain anything about their tangled past to an outsider, however well-meaning. "I need to be alone," he finally said, in a softer tone of voice.

He was sure Finch was going to argue more, going to go into all sorts of reasons why he should not let his feelings fester, because he'd read an article once about the long-term effects of bottling up emotions on a man's psyche, but when Finch finally spoke again, he just gave the smallest smile and said, "All right. I'll see you in the morning," and walked back down the stairs.

A small part of Jared was disappointed that Finch had given up so easily, but he ignored it. He also decided to ignore the rest of the bottle and go to bed.

***

Things settled down for a while after that, to just the usual chaos of a mining town. Stone wanted to believe things were getting better, that he had been wrong about how low things had sunk.

And then Miranda Blanchard came to town.

She wasn't vicious. She wasn't even all that unusual. You didn't meet many dainty, delicate ladies in the West, certainly not as the law. And it wasn't as if Stone had never met his fair share of crooked lawmen before. But he'd been surprised by how strongly, obviously drawn Finch had been to Miss Blanchard.

His own reaction to Finch kissing her was even more surprising.

Stone noticed Finch's window as he made his way through town, back to his own rooms. Finch's light, as usual, was still on. Maybe he was still looking at that fabric fragment from the old case he'd been looking into, off and on, for months. Maybe he was just up reading the latest journal he had received from back east. Maybe he was drinking a bottle of whiskey, thinking about the lovely Miss Blanchard and lost opportunities.

Jared thought about knocking on the door and offering his condolences and his own stories of love lost. He thought about offering to pick up their game of chess, and the quiet, gentle camaraderie that had been growing between them, and where it might lead, if he went in tonight. Where he felt it might possibly have been leading for some time, but wasn't sure.

He thought about what he had to lose. He thought about the look on Finch's face when Miranda Blanchard left town.

Stone kept walking down the quiet street to his home. It wouldn't be the first time he wanted something he couldn't have.

***

Stone wasn't going to talk to Finch after the business with Tipton. He'd said all he could think to say, and in the end Finch had definitively proven he was the better man, not to Jared, who had always known, but to himself. Nothing Stone had left to say, now that it was over, could make Finch feel any better, and could possibly just open old wounds.

But Finch had surprised him, as he sometimes did, and suggested they get together for their game tonight.

"It's sad, you know," Finch said, as he was setting up the board. "Tipton was a brilliant agent in his day. Was still obviously brilliant in how he set up the entire situation. It's ironic that the reason he was let go and the reason he came after me were essentially the same: he could never let go of the past and look to the future." He sounded genuinely sorry about it, which was more feeling than Stone could drum up for the person who had killed a young man and had nearly killed Finch.

"The future is frightening to many people, Finch," he said instead, moving one of his pawns.

"And that is exactly what I don't understand," Finch said, sitting forward and staring intently at Stone, ignoring the board for all he was hovering over it. "The future is exciting, full of possibility and wonder. There are so many new and fascinating discoveries happening every day, and so many more just around the corner. A whole new undiscovered country, just waiting for us."

Stone gave him a wry look. "The 'undiscovered country' is death. Most people aren't too eager for it."

Finch blinked in surprise and then sat back with a smile on his face. "Really, Marshal Stone. First the lecture on psychological warfare and now a reference to Shakespeare? You are full of surprises," he said, voice full of teasing and admiration.

"You know, Mr. Finch," he said, stressing the honorific and only being a fraction as irritated as he sounded, "there are times when you seem to think that because I didn't go to Cambridge I don't know my ass from Aristotle. We do have books out here, you know, and not just dime novels. And I had my own bit of schooling, in the distant past."

Finch's face lost some of its amusement, but there was something there replacing it that Stone couldn't or wouldn't identify. "I would never suggest otherwise," he said earnestly.

"And while we're on the subject of stupidity, I want to talk about that monstrosity called a motorcide you keep driving around town," he went on.

Finch picked up this new conversation. "I told you, it's called a motorcycle," and Stone nearly broke down laughing when he sniffed at the end of the sentence in fake indignation.

"It should be called a menace. I swear it's going to blow to kingdom come any moment, which is why I would prefer you didn't ride it in town: less chance of of taking anything or anyone else with you," he said, only half-kidding. "You also spook the horses every time you ride down the street, and you nearly ran over Mrs. Miller the other day."

"It is perfectly safe," he insisted for what had to be the fifteenth time since showing Stone his new acquisition just a week ago.

"It's death on two wheels," Stone returned. "It's also your move."

Finch looked at him, studied him once again, then smiled wider, that strange element not leaving his face. "Yes, I suppose it must be," he finally said, and moved out his knight.

***

Jared never got around to signing the resignation letter on his desk. Babbles, of course, accepted the boys' apology, but he also accepted their help with some of his more recent jobs of servicing the dirtclosets. Stone figured if that didn't teach the boys some kind of lesson, he wasn't sure what did.

Then there was a new case, and one way or another, he just never ended up getting back to the letter.

It was okay. He'd had it or any number of versions of it written for close to ten years, and he'd never signed it yet.

But this time, he kept on thinking. He thought about where his life was, and where he wanted it to be and what made it worth all the crap. He thought about Cole Hawkins, who hadn't been far from his mind recently, and how he'd spent so much of his life regretting, only to decide to settle down just a little too late.

Stone also thought about Finch.

So, when they sat down to their game that night, this time in Finch's rooms, he started by saying, "So, have you heard from Miranda Blanchard recently?"

It sounded pretty much as odd in his head as it did coming out of his mouth. Finch looked completely flummoxed, which was a rather interesting expression for him.

"I can't say that I have. Why do you ask?" he asked. He sat up straighter in his chair. "Has there been a new warrant released?"

Stone waved his hand at him. "No, nothing like that," he said gruffly. "I just know you were sweet on her. Thought you might have gotten a letter from her or something."

Finch actually looked even more confused now, if slightly bemused. "I admired her looks and her spirit, but I've done the same for a horse. I'm not sure I would characterize what I feel for her as 'sweet'."

Stone snorted. "I've never seen you put on a display with a horse in the street like the one you did with Miss Blanchard." He paused. "Good thing, too, as I'd have to arrest you, if I did."

Finch nearly choked on the sip of coffee he'd just taken. "I'll keep that in mind for future reference." Finch stared at him again, and once more Stone felt like a piece of evidence Finch was examining. "Why are we talking about Miranda, anyway?"

"You've got me," Stone admitted and rubbed his eyes. This was nothing like what he had thought about. When he let himself think about it.

"You were the one who brought her up, so you must have some idea," Finch pointed out, moving his bishop.

Stone sighed and tried to put his mind back on the game. "Well, I don't. You know how sometimes your mind is just wandering and it lands on something," he said, knowing he sounded more desperate than dismissive.

"Yes, but that would mean she was in your head in the first place," he said, obviously not ready to let the subject drop. "In fact there have been studies by some alienists which indicate that..."

Stone interrupted him. "If I tell you that I don't care right now, can we stop talking about it?" he asked, not caring if he sounded desperate or not.

Finch shrugged silent compliance, but he was smiling in a strangely mischievous way which Stone did not fully trust.

The game continued on, this time in silence for a while, pieces being moved back and forth, the occasional sacrified piece or offensive gambit. When Finch got up to refill his cup from the coffeepot on the stove, Stone followed him.

"Larimer," Stone said and stopped. The name felt strange in his mouth.

Finch looked up from the cloth he was studying and smiled at him. "You realize no one but my mother calls me that," he said.

Stone sighed in relief. "Finch." That felt just right. He needed all the familiarity he could get. "I," he started, and stopped again.

This wasn't easy. On the trail, there were signals when someone wanted something from a friend. Finch had his own set of signals, and Stone was normally good at reading them, but Finch thought in ways that Stone really couldn't see much of the time, circling an issue to look at it from all angles until he finally snuck up on it from behind.

Either way, Stone had never had to ask before, and didn't have the first idea what to say. Should have stuck with whores, he thought to himself briefly. Everyone knows where they stand with them. He thought briefly about his complicated relationship with Luci--which might be about to get more or less complicated. Or not.

For one of the few times in his life, he was too slow. Finch leaned in and kissed him. He had forgotten that while Finch tended to take a different route, they almost always ended up in the same place.

Kissing wasn't something Stone was used to with men, but it was good. Finch kissed the way he did everything else: with intensity and an eye towards scientific precision. There was nothing clinical about it, however.

Jared took control of the kiss, just to remind him what enthusiasm and instinct were good for as well.

Finch pulled away panting. "That was...pleasantly unexpected," he panted with a smile.

Jared narrowed his eyes at Finch. "I think you were expecting it plenty. You kissed me first, remember?" Stone pointed out.

Finch smiled wider and leaned in again. "Yes, but I expected you to argue more."

They were kissing again before any arguments could mount.

This, as in everything else it seemed, they were evenly matched, if differently skilled. Finch seemed intent on getting both of their clothes off, but Jared was more interested in making sure they made it to the bed first. Sure, he'd done this on the trail, but a bed was also easier on the knees and the back.

By the time they got to the bed, Finch had managed to remove both their outer shirts, and stepped back to remove his own under shirt. Jared took the time to look his fill.

Back at the beginning, Jared thought Finch had looked like over-polished silver, too bright and perfectly shiny to look at under the sun. He had had no idea how this greenhorn would survive in the west, where getting smudged was far from the worst thing that could happen. Stone wondered what Finch's old friends would think of him now if they saw him, unshaved and disheveled, ready to bed down with a man. Would they say he'd been worn away by the rough life out west, ruined beyond recognition?

Stone looked at the pale body being revealed before him, smooth in some places and scarred in others, looking relaxed and happy, and wondered if Finch wasn't more himself now than he'd ever been.

Finch, who was now standing in front of him perfectly naked and seemingly without a bit of self-consciousness. "This is a participatory activity you realize, Marshal?" he asked with laughter in his voice.

Stone let his gaze linger for just a while longer. "I am well aware of that, Detective," he said, completely straight-faced.

Finch reached up and kissed him again, and Stone didn't even try to hold back his own smile.

In between kisses the remainder of his own clothes were quickly dealt with, and soon they were lying on their sides, facing each other on Finch's bed. Finch seemed intent on studying every inch of his body, his hands gliding across his body and his gaze intent.

"I'm not a crime scene, Finch," Stone said, trying to get them back on track. Though being stared at by Finch now was a lot more fun than it had been in the past.

Finch smiled wider than Stone had ever seen. "Believe me, there's no crime here," he said with a level of admiration that made Stone look away. "But everything tells a story," he continued.

A hand swept up his arm. "About strength," he whispered in Jared's ear.

A finger traced a bullet scar in his shoulder. "And courage."

The hand slid down to his thigh and found the old knife wound. "And struggle."

Then it caressed the much older scar on his other hip and stopped. "And...raccoons?" the voice said from farther away and sounded more amused than Stone would have liked.

"Yeah, well, there's a reason you shouldn't get drunk on the trail," Jared said, really not wanting to talk about it, but looking at Finch's face and seeing the laughter there. He didn't think he'd ever seen Finch laugh before. Nor had he seen so much unguarded affection directed his way by anyone in a long time.

"So, your courage is even greater than I've known," Finch with something suspiciously like a giggle.

Stone rolled his eyes and pulled Finch's hips back towards him, eliciting a gasp. "Ha ha. Do you think we could get back on track here?" Stone asked against his lips.

Finch kissed him back and mumbled, "By all means."

Soon, there were again no words, their hands moving across each other, and bodies rubbing against each other. But always there were the kisses, soft and slow and hard and quick and everything in between. Jared didn't remember the last time he'd kissed or been kissed so thoroughly by anyone.

And all the while, his hands couldn't stop. He tried to keep his eyes open as much as possible, to see his own dark, calloused hands gliding along that pale, Irish skin. He had a sudden, incongruous memory of the one time a cowboy drinking his way through town had sneeringly called Finch English: the resulting brouhaha was still making the round of local legends.

He smiled against Finch's neck, enjoying the catch of Finch's stubble against his own chapped lips, and bit into the delicate skin, enjoying the gasp in his ear almost as much as the hand which had made its way between his own legs.

Quickly he found himself on his back with Finch, still moving but with much better leverage--god, how he loved leverage--now on top of him. "You had better be careful," Finch admonished. "What if Katie sees something on my neck tomorrow? She's very observant."

"Well," Jared said, thrusting up and throwing his head back, "I'd say she'll know she's back to being the town's most prominent spinster."

Finch gasped again at his next thrust--and Stone could be happy if he could just hear and see that every day--then smirked down at him. "Planning to make an honest man of me, Marshal?" he teased.

Jared glared up at him as well as he could, given the situation. "Can we please talk about this later?"

Finch was obviously trying to seem nonchalant, but Jared was pleased to see he didn't come close. "If you insist," he said casually, ruining the moment with a moan.

As in most things, they came to the end together.

***

"So," Finch said later, lying next to him. If they were going to keep doing this--please, god, let them keep doing this--they were going to need a bigger bed. "We were discussing you making an honest man of me?" Affection was clear in his voice as he ran his hand up Jared's arm.

"Seems redundant, somehow," Jared said, turning over to curl against him before falling asleep.

 

 

 


End file.
